I flew from Paris to Manchester yesterday with my boss. We’re staying in Huddersfield, and according to a brochure I found in the hotel lobby, the Dungeon of York promises ghosts.

Ghosts, and potentially zombies.

The ghosts have been lingering around York since 1551 when the putrid plague brought forth pussing boils, rotting corpses, and the lingering scent of all things horrifying. Creatures and items which fall under this category include (but not limited to) ghosts, snakes, witches, bigger ghosts, vampires (the real kind, there will be no mention of that series here dear readers), Lord Voldemort, Hannibal, anyone dedicated to killing in the serial fashion, beets, and of course, zombies.

What better method of zombie creation than a horrendous plague? The bodies are already there, and I don’t imagine zombies hump, so their reproduction must somehow be linked to disease.

Hence, my assumption there is such a thing as the zombies of York.

Also a logical conclusion is that they are lingering just outside this hotel room in the woods across the street. I can practically hear them shuffling through the leaves in search of innocent blood.

Ok, so if it was really innocent they were after, maybe I wouldn’t be their girl. Let’s say-American blood. Yea, I bet those York zombies can’t wait to take a bite out of a Yank. Which would ultimately make me a Yank-York-Zombie, and last time I checked, that’s not on my to-do list.

Also, I’m on the ground floor so they wouldn’t have to climb to find me or anything. They’d basically just have to cross the street (crosswalk provided for their safety), break my window, and create a whole new monster for their clan.

Great.

The York Dungeon evidently also hosts an exhibit on something called the Bloody Vikings. Next to the blurb: “Keep your wits about you as the Vikings go bersek in York-where will you run when the Vikings raid?”, is what looks like a bloody gladiator with a really mean face.

This is not the face you want to sit next to on public transportation, that’s for sure.

Still, he’s far more attractive than the plague-zombies, and I’m guessing if he bashes in my window, I’ll probably have to be some kind of gladiator-slave-wench. If that happens, I hope Hollywood is involved in the costume design because I am going to need some serious hair and makeup maintenance to pull of that look with any kind of dignity.

There is also a labyrinth of shadowy mirrors. I’m not entirely sure what this entails, but it claims to be from the lost Roman legion, and judging by the screaming child in the image, it is either related to murder, or David Bowie invented spandex in the Roman era.

It’s a shame I don’t have time to go to the museum itself to do more research. I’d like to be properly prepared for all of the horrendous horror which may quickly find its way to me today.

There are a lot of gruesome shenanigans that have occurred in York at one time or another. It’s amazing anyone would choose to live here.

Maybe I should purchase binoculars to search f0r the zombies from the treetops.

You know, for anthropological purposes. I wouldn’t want to get too close, but I can hardly pass up the opportunity to go zombie-watching.

The owner of this particular specimen was wagging it around like a helicopter blade whilst screaming profanity. There was an empty bottle of something at his feet, and by the looks of things, he was not leaving the station anytime soon.

I’m a little curious as to why he was so fascinated by his own member, as one would imagine he’s been attached to it since birth. I suppose their connection is his greatest life accomplishment to date, and this is why he felt the need to share it with the world.

Regardless, there it was, wagging around like a sad limp sock attached to a sad limp guy.

As I walked by, it dawned on me that I rarely see the naked bits of ladies down in the underbelly of the city. Once I saw a large woman’s breast when she heaved it out to show me (an action I still cannot explain though this too was related to alcohol), but that’s the only time I’ve ever been flashed by a lady.

Comparatively, quite a few male flashers have crossed my path in various locations around the globe. I’ve seen seen male flashers in the US, the UK, Grenada, Tanzania, Switzerland, and of course-France.

There must be something exciting that flashers get from their dirty deeds. I wonder what it is, and I wonder if it could be replicated by flashing random bits of body normally not associated with sex?

An elbow, for example. If I just started intently staring at people on the metro, holding eye contact whilst my arm slowly curled up to reveal a little piece of bow-candy? I wonder if I’d get a thrill out of it. Maybe a knee pit now and then?

Though I guess people wouldn’t realize it was something they weren’t supposed to see, so I’d probably have to tattoo the words “Do Not Look At Me, I Am An Erotic Elbow” onto it.

Yea, that might work. Or I guess I could tattoo some naughty bits onto my elbow and flash them.

Penises are too mainstream though.

I’m thinking ovaries. Yes, I think if I tattooed ovaries onto my elbow, stared people down on the metro, and flashed them a little ovarian bow, I could probably replicate the feeling accomplished by your run-of-the-mill flasher.

You know, really bring it more into the contemporary art scene.

The tattoo would probably hurt a bit though. Plus there’s the cost. And for what? At the end of the day, I’d just be that girl on line 4, flashing tattooed elbow ovaries at people.

Maybe they’d sell little statues of my elbow in the tourists shops next to the Eiffel Tower pencil sharpeners and baguette pens. Maybe I’d get silkscreened on a few tshirts before Urban Outfitters caught wind, mass-marketed the shirts and sold them to hipsters for 30 seconds until the fad ended-thus erasing my mystic underground image.

Still, there’s always henna…..

A splash of ethnic flare, a hint of cross cultural flashing relations. Western white American meets Indian art in unconventional location, in one of the most artistic cities in the world-and it’s temporary. Flashing continues only as long as the henna-ed ovaries remain on my dedicated-to-the-cause bow.

Today it’s 1996. I am 15 years old. I have a Meg Ryan inspired haircut-which I am not-repeat NOT pulling off well, I weigh 90 lbs, and I’m wearing jnco pants.

To clarify, that would be these:

In my case, my feet were never visible, which I assure you, made me hip. I am lacking boobs and an ass at this point.

Also, I live in the suburbs of Seattle.

So you know, practically Compton.

I have taken up the habit of cruising around in my best-friend’s car, attempting to smoke cigarettes (first time encountering this to be a later post-but let’s just re-emphasize that I am attempting, not really succeeding in smoking said cigarettes), and I have become temporarily obsessed with hip hop. I have started referring to my friends as my homies, I’m convinced that one can never wear enough eyeliner, and if I could figure out how to slick my hair back into a tight ponytail with just two spirals hanging out on either side, you can bet your ass I’d be doing it (aforementioned haircut-an unfortunate side-effect from my previous punk phase despite my desperate desire to become a ganster-excuse me-gangsta).

I am in 10th grade, I am unpopular, and I have acne. I also have been ordered by the orthodontist to wear headgear 14 hours a day, which I am rebelliously not doing (and yes mom, I still defend that decision).

So, I’m in my jncos, with a baby-toll tshirt which shows off my belly-button piercing (which I did myself-again, later post…), in my friend’s car, and we are cruising around parking lots in search of anything interesting.

By interesting, I mean boys. Specifically, cute bad boys.

It says something about the male libido that they’d find me attractive, but the fact that they do works well for me.

This is not prep school readers, this is the ghetto.

Ok, so maybe we all saw Dangerous Minds one too many times, but regardless, here we are.

In a parking lot. In a car. Coughing cigarette smoke and trying to chat up boys.

Our vessel is her 1982 Honda. It was at one time white, it is now various shades of dirt. The driver door does not open so we both have to enter and exit the vehicle via passenger door. We have slurpees instead of alcohol because we cannot get our hands on anything more adventurous than sugar-soaked ice.

We are listening to e40. Specifically, we are listening to this song:

Which is of course, the song of my tenth grade year. The song which inspired the months of begging my mother for a pager. To page, to be paged, is the epitome of cool and I desperately want to be involved.

The song is reminding me that I don’t yet have a pager, but it’s also working in my favor because I know all the words and can bob my head slightly along in a bad-ass manner I learned from movies.

I will sit in that parking lot, in that car, in those jeans for the next three months before I decide I’m a rock girl.

Today a British dentist made me wear a pair of sunglasses while he filled in my cavity.

Evidently this is common in England. When I asked, I was informed it was to protect my eyeballs from any instruments that may ‘accidentally’ fall into my face.

This inspired confidence, I assure you. I lay in the chair, donned the shades, kicked my Chucks, and waited for the good gentlemen to explain the situation occuring inside my tooth.

It was huge.

The cavity, not the chair.

Well, I suppose the chair was pretty big too but I meant to focus on the cavity here. Though you’ll never hear me question why dentist chairs aren’t used in formal dining venues. That big mirror and light are a tad distracting.

As I sat in the chair, sunglasses covering my eyes I thought of three things:

1. Sunglasses? Really?

2. why are these not RayBans?

and

3. why have I ignored my blog for so long?

Then I remembered that my last post was a Christmas poem and that I have become the blogosphere’s equivilant of a catlady who keeps her tree until June.

I’ve never claimed to be cool, but I think we can all agree-the wreath and lights must come down.

I knew things were getting bad when I mistook my reflection for Jane Fonda before leaving the apartment last night. I thought, ‘no matter Ry, this is part of the character. Part of the girl named Rachel you’ve decided to portray to anyone who approaches you tonight’.

This, evidently, is my idea of a good time.

Rachel, the aspiring actress/waitress who couldn’t wait to ‘understand’ British culture. Rachel of the no IQ. Rachel, the blonde girl with a propensity for hair twirling, loud giggling, and repeatedly asking: “wait, what does that mean?”. Rachel, traveling Europe with her oldest and longest friend.

Kayti the Starbucks barista. Kayti with the chip on her shoulder. Kayti the indy girl full of Ani references and eye-rolling. Kayti, Miss too-cool-for-school. Kayti from Boston, traveling with her oldest friend-despite said friend’s irritating qualities.

She looked like a rock chick.

Dark, mysterious, sexy.

I looked like an 80s escort.

Pasty, curvy, moronic.

Seriously, I even had leg warmers.

Rachel's accessory of choice.

Granted, I had voluntarily clad myself in 80’s attire for the evening, so it’s not like there’s anyone else to blame here.

Blasting Pump up the Jam (full with video-courtesy of youtube), she and I took our time getting ready. Hair, make-up, and jewellery choices were all discussed at length.

When we got it perfect, it was time to go.

Bellies full of sandwiches, make-up piled on faces, Kayti and I headed off to Camden town with a mission.

I desperately wanted to make a man wake up the following morning and say to himself:

“Dear holy God, I think that was the dumbest girl on the planet. Cardboard brains. How in the name of Manchester United was I able to stand the conversation?”

I vowed not to break character. No sarcasm would pass through my thick lipstick. No sir.

Man_Shopper wanted to research how differently men would react to her if she were someone else. She has a dating blog, so this was a prime opportunity to play a different part.

I didn’t have a cool excuse. I just love to play.

So off we went.

It never once occurred to me that no one would approach us. My narcissim is too great for such a thought to enter my brain.

But yet…

Sadly….

That is what happened.

Operation Hot Sister was an EPIC FAILURE BECAUSE NO MAN APPROACHED US, LOOKED AT US, OR DID SO MUCH AS NOD IN OUR DIRECTION. ALL-CAPS USE TO EMPHASIZE THE HUMILIATION OF REALIZING ONE HAS LOST ONES MOJO.

Gone.

Finito.

No characters. No conversation. No free drinks. No eye-flirting. No. Anything.

Just the two of us idiots, tequila shots, and late-night sandwiches.

The longest conversation we had with any man was at Subway when we ordered foot-longs to devour our sorrows.

So that’s it.

Ladies and gentlemen, we no longer turn heads.

I’m sure there’s an argument for karma somewhere in all of this nonsense. Just as soon as my ego recovers, it’ll warrant further investigation.

I imagine myself roaming fields littered with orcs, monsters, dragons, and other fantastical beasts while ripping the flesh off the bone with my teeth.

Which is why this is not the greatest food for me to eat in front of other people.

I just get too excited.

Every bite bursts forth an orchestral soundtrack, images of battles, mead, and big-breasted barmaids. Usually in this scenario I picture myself in worn armor, unsheathed sword in one hand, drumstick in the other. Blood and dirt streaked across my cheek, head of a beast underneath my mighty foot.

Needless to say, this makes trips to KFC a bit awkward.

Thank God for delivery.

Now it’s just the one witness who stands by in silence while I hand over payment in a velvet-pouch. Shaking the hand of the good man who ventured forth to bring me the feast, I nod my head in somber gratitude for all those who fell during whichever flick I’ve had playing in the background. Smiling greedily, I then take the bucket of bird into my private lair for consumption.

Tonight, for all who fought against Mordor, Lord Voldemort, Troy, and the Sheriff of Nottingham (both animated and Alan Rickman)-I raise this leg to you.